


If I Die

by cowgirldressage1



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:48:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowgirldressage1/pseuds/cowgirldressage1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Spock had died on an away mission.  This is more a character study of Kirk, how he goes through the stages of mourning, than anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Die

**Author's Note:**

> Paramount, its heirs and assigns, own Star Trek. I make no profit therefrom.

And If I Die . . .

Now I lay me down to sleep,  
I pray thee Lord, my soul to keep.  
And if I die before I wake,  
I pray thee Lord, my soul to take.

Jim sat beside the bio bed, watching Spock breathe. His sharp features were relaxed, brow smooth, mouth lax. His face was usually so mobile but now was peaceful. Jim feared this tranquil façade. It suggested Spock had let go, given up. 

Spock’s injuries were minor by comparison to what his Vulcan body had endured in the past. He should wake up soon, eyebrow cocked, dry wit at ready. 

Something about his expression worried Jim. There was an air of defeat on his face, a downward turn of his expressive mouth that signaled he was overcome, unable to shake off this miasma. 

McCoy swore Spock was well, would wake up shortly, but Jim didn’t believe him, not for a minute.

The away mission had been nothing special at the start. When the ruling council had turned on them, it had been an unpleasant surprise but nothing they hadn’t dealt with before. 

Perhaps it had been the children, caught up in the political struggle, starved and beaten. They had seen worse, of course.

Perhaps it had been the security officers, O’Neil and Sing, dying at insurgents’ hands, vainly trying to protect the children. Jim regretted every loss of life on the Enterprise, but those men had died, loyal to the last, to six children, slated to be sacrificed to religious fervor. 

Perhaps it had been Jim himself, cut off from his officers and security, who had been rendered incapacitated by the uncontrolled mob trying to extricate the children from the fanatics that held them. Spock had been frantic, trying to reach him.

Spock had stepped between the mob and Jim and taken a phaser blast to the chest. Jim expected no less from his First Officer, who had always put Jim’s life ahead of his own.

 

This time, Spock wasn’t waking up. There had been no healing trance, no superior Vulcan physiology to pull him out of the hole he had dug in his psyche. Jim suspected Spock didn’t want to wake up. He would be content to drift endlessly in a void, safe, forgiven, unknowing, and unfeeling.

 

Jim sat beside Spock’s bed, willing him to life, consciousness, health. He couldn’t take his eyes off the readings on the monitor for a second. He believed that if he sat there long enough; Spock would make his return, perhaps reluctantly, but eventually.

 

Days passed, with no discernable change. Jim had gone into a ‘waiting’ mode, not really present in Sick Bay, the dining hall, his quarters. He wasn’t even truly present at Spock’s bedside, seemingly drifting between Spock’s sleeping form and his responsibilities as Captain.

There were moments when Jim felt swamped by Spock; his tentative hold on life, his physical needs, his emotional existence. It made Jim tired, depressed, staring into that black vacuum that might be his life if Spock didn’t wake up.

There were moments when Jim sat on the sharp edge of anger, furious at what the fates had allowed. He asked himself, over and over, what he could have done to prevent Spock’s injuries, how he could have saved the situation. Jim knew he had failed somehow and he turned his fury onto himself.

There were moments when he prayed for relief. He hated those most of all. Part of him wanted this to be resolved, finished, and fixed one way or the other. He knew what that meant. If Spock was dead, gone, he could move past it. Part of him knew he never would.

There were moments when he was terrified. He couldn’t imagine a life without Spock on the Bridge, walking shoulder to shoulder down a corridor, across his desk, pawn in hand, a half smile on his face. It was an unimaginable situation, where the press of life could continue without him.

 

Finally, Jim realized that Spock was no longer present. The sleeping form was a husk of what he had been, what he would have become. Jim believed he knew the exact moment when Spock relinquished whatever hold he had on life. Jim had been holding his hand and felt a soft drawing away. He didn’t try to stop it; he couldn’t even if he wanted to. Spock had simply slipped away, leaving Jim alone, finally, to mourn.

 

In the end, death is final. It is a relief, no more waiting, no more bargains with the gods. What remains, Jim found, was incredible pain, so sharp, so excruciating, he was surprised. 

Ultimately, after much time and effort, he learned to push beyond grief and take, if not joy, moments that brought him relief. He found himself turning toward Spock’s station on the Bridge, looking up over his desk in his quarters, making a clever remark for his benefit in the rec room. Every time it happened, he caught himself, embarrassed.

Jim couldn’t understand why Spock had given up. Spock had chosen a path of least resistance without giving Jim a clue. McCoy was inconsolable, believing himself to be at fault. Ultimately, though, he came up with the only explanation that made any sense.

McCoy never pulled punches and this one nearly ripped Jim apart. He held the opinion that Spock gave up his life because it was easy. Physically, he could have gone on, with effort, but he had chosen to leave them behind. McCoy believed Spock was a coward; he was unwilling to face his emotional nature and so took the opportunity to bow out.

When Jim heard this theory, he almost hit McCoy. He was still protective of Spock and would hear no criticism. When he heard the same theory, in different words from Uhura, then Mr. Sulu and finally Mr. Scott, he realized he had missed something essential.

When Jim finally began to understand the mystery that was Spock, Uhura came to him, one evening after Alpha shift. She said little, but handed him a chip and advised him to listen to it.

It was a simple conversation between Spock and Uhura, during a session when Spock was teaching her to play the Vulcan lyre. Jim was stopped, absolutely, when he heard Spock’s voice in conversation. It brought back a longing and a memory of his presence Jim hadn’t felt in weeks. At some point, Spock started playing the lyre, instructing Uhura on a technical point. 

The song Spock chose was one Jim hadn’t heard before. It was crystalline in the purity of the sound; so beautiful it brought tears to Jim’s eyes. Lovely as it was, he didn’t understand why Uhura brought it to him until he heard the refrain. It soared. If sound could be suspended in joy, it was. Each note called to Jim, wrapping him in a warm melancholy he couldn’t fathom.

Jim listened to the chip repeatedly that night. He learned that Spock had experienced great joy. He learned that Spock had experienced terrible sadness. It had been a life well lived. Jim could take comfort in that, ultimately, that was all anyone could ask.

 

In the end, Jim would count Spock as one of the great failures of his life. He had never really understood the shy, brilliant Vulcan. 

Somehow, Spock had never understood him, either. Jim wished he could go back in time and give Spock just one reason to stay. If he could tell him how Jim valued him, how he respected him, how he . . . loved him, perhaps Spock would have tried harder to live.

 

Years later, Jim created his perfect life in the Nexus. He had his wood beamed house, his stable filled with horses, a dog at his feet, and the sweet smelling autumn air. One morning as he cooked breakfast for someone he loved, he realized that the person upstairs, waiting on him, was Spock. He smiled to himself, flipped his eggs, buttered several pieces of toast, and made his way to the bedroom. Spock was still in bed, covered in a feather duvet, looking at him with great affection and humor.

Jim put breakfast down on the bedside table and crawled across the king size bed, drawing Spock into his arms. Spock pressed his nose into the corner of Jim’s neck, drawing Jim’s scent in. He took Spock’s face into his hands and kissed him. 

Funny how things work out. Jim never asked and Spock never offered an explanation. It was enough that they were together. It was enough.


End file.
